Page 108 of Felix

“Shit,” I mutter, feeling my heart thump wildly in my chest. “Arrhythmia.”

“What?” he asks, head cocked to the side as his hands toy with the belt near his waist.

“Uh… I had this theory that you were giving me an arrhythmia.”

“And?” Christian asks, lips quirking. “Any conclusions?”

“Data points to yes.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Should I keep the coat on, then?”

“Fuck no.”

Christian chuckles, and without hesitation, he lets the trench coat slip off his arms. It pools on the floor behind him as Christian, my gorgeous-as-fuck boyfriend, this man who’s sweet and supportive and perfectly filthy, stands in a multicolored tutu and nothing else. Well, nothing except for his shoes and the dainty silver chain around his stomach.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

He raises his arms above his head, the extension making him look longer and leaner than normal, and then he spins ever so slowly, legs crossing in the process. He bends toward the floor, and I nearly have a heart attack.

“You…” I manage.

“Told you I’d wear a tutu for you, Specs. Made this one the other night. Do you like it?” he asks, standing slowly upright and then dropping his head back and to the side, neck arched as he looks at me over his shoulder.

I suck in a steadying breath, my chest feeling too warm, too tight, my eyes pricking for no discernable reason, and I say the only thing I can.

“I fucking love you.”

Christian freezes, his body going rigid as his eyes widen. It takes me a second to realize what fell out of my mouth.

Shit. “I…”

“Specs,” Christian says, dropping his arms and spinning toward me.

“I—” Fuck. “I needa take a shower.”

I hop up, all but sprinting toward the showers as Christian’s, “Emil,” follows me. I jump into a stall and pull the curtain closed, my heart pounding, my hand shaking as I twist the shower on. Christian comes to a stop on the other side of the curtain, his form a dark shadow. “Do you need your bathroom stuff?”

Crap. “Um, yeah. Please.”

Christian disappears, and a minute later, he returns, handing my toiletries bag over through a gap in the curtain.

“When you’re done in there,” he says evenly, “there’s something I want to say. But I’m not going to do it through a shower curtain.”

My heart beats fast, and I curse the words I let slip as I tug off my clothes. I dump them over the top of the curtain, and they fall with a thump.

“I know what you’re doing,” Christian says, sounding serious yet almost amused. “Just so you’re aware.”

“Um…” I mumble, letting the shower drench me. My glasses fog quickly. “I, uh…”

“And the only reason I’m not following you in there is because we go on set in five minutes. And I don’t have time to dry your hair and my own.”

I mutter another, “Shit,” making quick work of shampooing my hair that most definitely didn’t need to be washed.

“You okay?” Christian asks.

No.

“Of course,” I squeak.

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